


What It Was That Made You Weak

by orphan_account



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Introspection, It's more like, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Possibly Unrequited Love, That's it, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, hence the teen and up rating, it's just... gay... just, mmm well of course i have no idea how to tag this, seriously i'm not actually sure what this fic Is, vague... poetry.... kind of......
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 21:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13490421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Ultimate Detective has a crush that he never anticipated. (Alternatively: what may have happened just before Shinguji's love suite event.)





	What It Was That Made You Weak

**Author's Note:**

> The song I listened to that somewhat inspired this fic (and the song containing the lyric that forms the title) is Obsessions by Marina and the Diamonds. ShinSai is a... guilty ship of mine; I like to think that they would be able to relate very well to each other and could potentially possess an easy friendship, if not a relationship later down the road. (I literally just finished writing this fic and my mind is still in flowery introspection mode someone please save me)

Lying in bed, sheets tangled around bare legs, lanky arms splayed helplessly across a heaving chest, Shuichi had to wonder when this had happened. It was not unlike a disease, the earliest signs and symptoms so minor that he’d elected to ignore it, wait it out. And then suddenly he was flushed and feverish, pulse so rabbit-quick he thought he might die of a heart attack if he dared shut his eyes to sleep. 

When…? When had this snuck up on him, and how hadn’t he noticed until now? How did he end up a sweaty mess, wide awake even after training? Even Kaito’s grounding words did little for him now. His breaths, laboured and agonized, dehydrated and utterly pathetic, were the only sounds in the room before he shut his eyes, rolled to his side and curled in on himself. In that blessed darkness, where his heartbeat hammered guiltily in his eardrums, where his head spun on a lopsided axis, where he held his breath long enough that he felt he was about to burst, he saw him.

Korekiyo Shinguji.

Of anyone… why him? Why someone so… strange? So reserved, so quiet and mysterious, someone who both lacked in social graces and exemplified them to such a perfect degree? Someone so inhuman and yet so wonderfully human… How? Why? It was betrayal, a knife-twisting betrayal, blood spilling from his abdomen, wet and sick noises of death and despair. The same two questions, over and over again, like bullets--how? Why? A hypersensitive mind roved over Korekiyo’s mental form, mapping out everything he could remember.

(How horrible, horrible, horrible…)

Without realizing, his breathing had slowed, muscles relaxing and hands instinctively gripping his pillow, soft and pliable under his desperate touch. Roped into thoughts of his classmate, he remained perfectly still, allowing himself to be completely overtaken. 

“K--” he began, a soft sound, muffled against his pillow as he cradled himself, holding himself close for fear he would burst at the seams.  _ Kehehe. _ That familiar laugh, raspy and rather charming in its own way. Those light eyes, calculating and constantly observing. The thought of those eyes on him, of that soft voice murmuring reverence and praise, as if the detective really were someone important, someone interesting, someone  _ beautiful. _

How he could be so unraveled at the barest of thoughts, the slightest of implications, at the hitch in the anthropologist’s voice as he spoke-- _ wonderful, _ he’d said that day. Over what, Shuichi couldn’t remember. What was so wonderful about such a self-conscious, stuttering mess? What was so wonderful about the way his hands shook like an addict, the way he stole glances in a manner no more refined than a petty thief? What was so wonderful about a detective’s madness, about a fixation on an unsolvable mystery? A cold case, like Korekiyo’s cold hands. They had brushed hands once, hadn’t they. The brush of hands, like… like… like the sultry tones of Shinguji’s voice, like the way he could make such eloquent comparisons, like the way he weakened the detective’s knees with the smallest of actions.

(How wonderful, wonderful, wonderful…)

Suddenly, as if it were some spasm from the deepest reaches of himself, a place he’d never been touched, Shuichi turned onto his other side and groaned into his pillow. Normally pallid cheeks heated up at the implication; he had intended to make a sound of irritation, frustration, but this sound carried far more of an undertone to it. Something else he hadn’t detected. What a pitiful detective.

_ How beautiful… How marvelous…  _

Why…? How…? What did Shinguji see in him? No--even a thought like that was too dangerous. Shinguji saw nothing but humanity in him. It was Shuichi who had tangled himself in the delicate tightrope he’d been walking. Who had fallen and lay helpless, victim to that appraising stare that always made his face flush like hellfire itself had scorched him.

Sleep-deprived hands reached for the key at his bedside, warm and real in his grip, so tight he was sure he would brand himself with it. Brand himself a filthy-minded failure, someone who could not get to sleep with the heat rocketing through his body and the sheets tangled around and between his legs. His breath, laboured and balmy, was exhaled into clasped hands: a prayer whispered in the darkest depths of desire.

“Take me… let me see his beauty.”


End file.
